


"I miss you"

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Midnighters Timestamps [6]
Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fingering, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-07 23:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Can you come home now?” Adam whines, and Nigel laughs, soft, low, delighted by what his words do to his little sparrow.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Not for another four thousand minutes, baby,” Nigel tells him, smiling when Adam makes a fussy sound. “And you’re counting, yeah? I’ll be there before that, just won’t tell you when.”</i></p><p>  <i>Adam laughs warmly against the pillow and mumbles something Nigel doesn’t hear against the sheets. </i></p><p>The Midnighters boys have a late night talk between timezones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"I miss you"

Adam used to like being alone. He liked the quiet and the space he had to himself, he liked being able to sit in the apartment on the couch and read, not realizing it was evening until it became too hard to see and he had to stretch for the light to turn it on. He used to like it.

Now, whenever he’s alone, it is resounding evidence that Nigel is not here. On a trip, again, to tell another incompetent asshole, again, who the boss is and why, if he has to remind him _again_ , he might not have kneecaps. Now, when the apartment is quiet, Adam doesn’t sit still and read, he can’t. He misses the quiet cursing and breathing, he misses the pacing and the lingering smell of cigarettes. He misses the hot kisses and sleepy nuzzling when Nigel finally crawls into bed at an ungodly hour of the night.

He misses pushing back against him in the mornings and finding him hard.

Now, Adam squirms in bed, face pressed to the pillow, and counts the minutes - 4329 - until Nigel is home again. He misses him. He wants him. This evening, he _needs_ him. With a soft whine he reaches for his phone and dials from memory the number for the latest burner Nigel had taken with him to wherever the hell he is now.

A grunt greets him first, and a thick-voiced curse. The sound of the phone’s mouthpiece rustling against fabric, and then so close that Adam swears he can feel Nigel’s breath against his ear, Nigel murmurs:

“Hi, baby. Everything okay?”

Muffled against the pillow, Adam makes a small sound and Nigel sits up in bed. He lets go of his cock and holds the phone properly, rather than jammed against his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I miss you.”

The sweet confession tugs at Nigel’s heart and cock, as if a thread joined them both, held only in the hand of the kid on the line with him. He settles back against the headboard, relaxing incrementally, and his voice carries a smile on it.

“How did you know I was thinking about you?”

Adam makes another little noise and slips his hand between his legs, squirming more against it as he listens to Nigel breathing, closes his eyes and imagines he’s right there.

“I didn’t know you were thinking about me,” Adam mumbles. “I was thinking about you and how there are four-thousand-three-hundred-twenty-four minutes until you’re home and I got hard and -”

Adam bites his lip, blushing furiously, and grinds slowly against his wrist, pressed hard and deliberate between his thighs.

“Why were you thinking about me?” he asks after a moment.

“Because I love you,” Nigel answers, no hesitation. He presses the phone tighter against his ear and strains to hear every little hitched breath, every movement that shifts against the sheets. Each whisper of sound jerks his cock from where it lays thick against his hairy belly. Each off-beat breath gathers his balls tighter.

He rests his hand against his cock and rubs the bottom ridge of it with his thumb, slowly pressing up to the little stretch of skin that joins foreskin to head, down harder to the base of his shaft.

“And because I was just jerking off,” he admits, grinning. “Imagining coming home early, finding you asleep, all pink and pale, and waking you up with my tongue inside your ass.”

Adam whimpers, loud and helpless, and wriggles enough to catch the waistband of his briefs with his thumb. He tugs them a little down his ass, enough to slip his hand in and stroke himself properly. He imagines, with a shiver, Nigel doing just that. Coming home early, when Adam is still asleep, gently lifting his hips and giving him his good morning kiss between his legs.

“Can you come home now?” Adam whines, and Nigel laughs, soft, low, delighted by what his words do to his little sparrow.

“Not for another four thousand minutes, baby,” Nigel tells him, smiling when Adam makes a fussy sound. “And you’re counting, yeah? I’ll be there before that, just won’t tell you when.”

Adam laughs warmly against the pillow and mumbles something Nigel doesn’t hear against the sheets. Slipping lower again, feet shoved against the sheets, Nigel fists his cock and watches the glistening, taut head disappear beneath soft skin.

“Say that again, darling?”

Another pouty sound.

“Christ, do you always jerk off face-down?”

This time, Adam pauses, an embarrassed blush stoked bright across his cheeks. He pulls at his cock again but slower this time.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The weight of my hips increases the friction.”

Nigel rumbles, almost a purr, pleased by the dirty words that Adam speaks to him. They’re not dirty in the porno sense, Adam’s not that fucking showy. But there’s a shameless honesty to the things he says, frank and almost scientific, that has Nigel’s hips rising from the bed to fuck slow into the tunnel of his hand.

“I like you face-down, too,” Nigel says. “Those little looks you give me over your shoulder. Your ass in the air. The way you lift up your feet when I’m fucking you.”

Adam whimpers again, that little kitten sound of pleasure that near purrs from between his lips when Nigel speaks to him like this. He does love it, his beautiful, incorruptible little sparrow, to be talked to - once in a while - like a slut. And Nigel is all too happy, always, to indulge him.

“Put the phone on speaker, darling, let me hear you.”

There is a fumbling, and a moment later the sound is clearer: Adam’s little panting breaths, the shift of fabric as he digs his toes into the bed and lifts his hips a little more, the soft hush of fabric as he strokes himself, hand in his underwear.

He is a beautiful man, and Nigel wonders, every fucking day, how he got so goddamn lucky.

“I wish you were here now,” Adam whines quietly. “I wish you were here to fuck me.”

Nigel curses beneath his breath and it rebounds back to him in the form of a plaintive moan. Like feedback through a fucked-up amplifier, each man’s helpless exultations escalate the other, until they are tugging quick against their cocks. Until they are both aching for want of the other, an ocean apart, Nigel on the Cote d’Ivoire and Adam in New York.

“I’d fuck you so hard you couldn’t breathe,” Nigel says, neck craning as he pushes back against the bed. “First, though, first, darling - I’d ask you to suck me. Beautiful mouth wrapped red around my cock. Eyes up, gorgeous, please for me. Christ, I love to see your eyes when you’re down on your knees. You’re so fucking beautiful, Adam -”

A groan rends his words and he forces his hand to slow from the quick, slippery slap of skin against skin. Nigel digs his heels into the bed as Adam’s sweet, high whimper pleads into the phone. Knees drawn up and legs spread wide, Nigel looks down at his cock as if he might suddenly see Adam’s spit-glossed lips curled around it, his cheeks hollowing. Nigel’s balls are high and tight, excruciatingly close to release already.

“Do you like sucking me off?” Nigel asks. He bites his lip hard enough to hurt, as if refocusing there might quell the rising fullness building heat from the pit of his belly. “You like my cock in your mouth, darling?”

There is a sound of hissing through the phone, as Adam rolls onto his back for a moment and moans softly, and Nigel imagines him arching up, flushed and pretty and leaking against his fingers, lips bitten and parted. It’s enough, almost, to push him the fuck over. And Adam hardly helps with his little sounds and quiet words.

“I like how you taste,” he murmurs, making a pitchy little whining sound before curling his hand harder around himself. “I like how you feel in my mouth, thick and heady.”

“Good, angel,” praises Nigel. He’s stopped stroking himself entirely now, fingers cinched tight beneath his cock’s corona. He forces his eyes towards the ceiling as precome glistens and drips thick down the bared head, breath rattling. “You like it when I fuck your mouth.”

Adam’s gasp is answer enough.

Nigel continues. “When I hold you by your hair and move your mouth for you. When I come down the back of your throat and you choke a little - fuck, darling, _fuck_ it’s beautiful. Would you let me?”

“M-Make me choke?”

“On my cock,” Nigel snarls, grinning.

“Yes,” answers Adam, and Nigel bites back a sound more growl than moan.

“Put your fingers in your mouth, baby,” he asks. “Let me hear you suck them. Get them nice and fucking wet for me.”

Adam complies, and Nigel imagines his eyes, if they’re still open, glazed and glassy with pleasure already. He hears him, the soft suck against one finger, then another, two pressing against the velvet-soft tongue, further back to the heat of Adam’s mouth. Adam makes a little wet sound and parts his lips to groan in a breath. Then he keeps sucking.

Adam thinks that perhaps he will do this more, when he feels hungry for Nigel like this. He will call him and have Nigel tell him in dirty, wonderful words what he wants him to do so they both feel good.

Ill-fitting proxies, his own fingers, but enough, for now, for the four thousand-odd minutes left until Nigel comes home.

Every wet little sound spirals down Nigel’s spine and threatens to arch him from the bed. His body is a wire pulled too taut, trembling with the force required to hold his orgasm at bay. Behind his eyelids as they flutter closed, Nigel can see his Adam, pale but for the blush of pink across the rises of bone, beneath his eyes, soft skin blooming ruddy from his own arousal. He can see pointed hips and tender thighs, slender ankles and dark, wide nipples made small and stiff.

Adam’s throat clicks through the phone, an obscene slurp curled around his fingers. Nigel sighs and turns to his side, stomach firm enough that it hurts, in hopes it might keep his coming at bay just a little while more.

“Are you still on your stomach?”

The tone of the hum tells him no.

“Get on your stomach, darling. Push your ass up in the air like I was there,” he instructs, a clip to his words, akin to giving orders but darker, warmer, intoxicating and smoky as well-aged bourbon. “I want you to hold your ass open, and put those wet little fingers inside it for me.” He forces himself to breathe, his cock pulsing, leaking in time with his pulse. “Since I can’t fuck you, I want to hear you fuck yourself.”

Adam makes an entirely helpless sound, a mixture of humiliation and denial and arousal and so many other things together. He would be trembling, now, he would be embarrassed and all the harder for it. Nigel listens as Adam kicks out against the bed, a quiet flop of fabric to the carpet as he slips his briefs from his legs and to the floor. Pity, but too late now.

Another shift in bed as Adam turns back to his knees, spreads them slowly until he comfortably presses his chest to the mattress. He moves like a cat, always, languid and elegant and motherfucking sexy. He listens to the hitches of breath, the slipping of skin against skin until Adam makes a frustrated little noise and the next sigh sounds like a gust against the phone’s speaker.

“I can’t.”

“You can, baby.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Adam pouts, squirming further against against his fingertips. “I can’t reach as deep as you.”

“Try,” Nigel says, voice tight behind gritted teeth as he touches his swollen cock again, painfully thick. He presses his palm against the shaft and curls his fingers slowly around, pleased by the full, fat weight of it in his grip. “Try pushing down to your knuckles, angel, you can do that. Bend your fucking back, you beauty -”

Adam makes a helpless sound, and though Nigel can’t hear the sound of Adam fingering himself, he can certainly see it behind his eyes. Pretty pink hole stretching scarlet and smooth, pert ass flushed rosy and snowy thighs trembling. Knees spreading wider and wider, ass opening with every push that bends his tight muscle inward, until the tip of Adam’s cock brushes the bed, hanging long and stiff between his legs.

“Spread your fingers,” Nigel snarls, gripping the phone and his cock until both hands’ knuckles are white. “Open yourself up for me, darling.”

Adam does, one leg slipping against the sheets, stretching wide, toes splayed in pleasure, the other curling closer against his stomach as Adam rocks forward to rub the head of his cock against the bed, rocks back to push his fingers into himself, deep as he can, from this angle.

He imagines Nigel behind him, watching, whispering softly against his sweaty skin that he looks so filthy like this, that he’s so wanton when he wants to be, that Nigel wants to fuck him _so badly you’ll fucking limp after, baby_. He wants to. He wants to limp. He wants to wake up with a groan and curl and nuzzle against Nigel and not do anything all day. He wants him to come home.

“Your fingers feel better,” Adam whispers, voice helpless. “They’re thicker, rougher, and you touch me in the right place all the time, you don’t have to find it anymore you just know, and it feels so good and I miss it, I miss you and I -”

Adam brushes against his prostate and bites the pillow with a sob, trembling, seeing stars, trying to catch his breath as Nigel swears through the phone.

“There you go, baby. Right fucking there,” Nigel purrs, when he manages to find his voice again. It’s thick in his throat, roughened by smoke and booze and lust for this - for Adam, far across the fucking sea and fucking himself for both their sakes. “Rub. Rub your fingers right against it. That rough little spot, you feel how fucking swollen it is? Fuck,” he snarls, he curses and he comes, sudden and hot against his fingers. Quick jerks of his hips push stripes of semen over his trembling hand, ribboned dark against the cheap sheets. His come soaks into the bed and Nigel imagines it across Adam’s cheeks, dripping from his lips, pearlescent on his belly, coating his cock from inside Adam’s ass.

He’s dizzy with it, gasped groans belting rough into the phone, echoed by Adam’s hitched whimpers. Nigel knows he’s doing as he’s told, and the thought that Adam - beautiful Adam with his beautiful fucking mind and his secret depravity - is envisioning Nigel’s fingers instead of his own milks Nigel dry as he tugs at his cock.

“Let me hear you come,” he begs. “Say my name, angel, say my fucking name and tell me that you love me.”

Adam sobs again, eyes closed tight and lashes damp as he keeps stroking, keep pressing into himself and imagining it’s Nigel. His cock rubs against the sheets and it feels so good he can barely breathe. His mind is a blur, white noise and harsh breaths and images of Nigel, Nigel, _Nigel_ , smiling and swearing and bending and kissing and touching and -

“Nigel, I’m gonna come,” Adam whimpers, if only to hear Nigel swear again and tell him he wants to hear him. So Adam keeps touching, keeps stroking and stretching and worrying the pillow between his teeth until he finds that level, that heat of white light that overwhelms him and he comes, whining out Nigel’s name again as he stretches flat, feline, against the bed and feels his cock pulse against the mattress beneath him.

He will need to change the sheets, but right then he doesn’t care, right then he can’t. He smiles, bright and wide, and sniffs quietly before turning his head almost shyly into the pillow and mumbling to Nigel that he loves him.

He reaches with his cleaner hand to take up the phone. Laying on his belly, he brings the phone beneath his ear and the mattress and switches off the speaker just in time to hear Nigel hush him.

Just a whisper, a breath, quieting Adam’s heart back to ease even as his skin tingles from scalp to toes.

Just like Nigel does when they’re together.

Just like Nigel will when he’s home again.

“Hush,” he murmurs, a lazy smile warming his words. “Like I don’t fucking know you love me.”

“You told me to -”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Nigel says, smearing his hand against the polyester bedcover as he turns to his back. The bed seems to move beneath him, the ceiling moving in time with his pulse. Dizzy, Nigel closes his eyes and cradles the phone close. “Imagine that I’m kissing you, angel. Fucking worshiping you. My little sparrow, lovely Adam. Sassy fucking mouth and all.”

Adam squirms happily into the bed and curls up into a ball, uncaring, for the moment, for the mess. He can wash himself and the sheets later, or just bundle them up and leave them in the basket for Nigel to do when he gets home.

In four thousand-odd minutes.

“Tell me you love me?” Adam asks him, sleepy and flushed and pliant and cozy. Delighting in the snorted laugh from Nigel through the phone, also sleepy, also flushed, and always, always warm.

Nigel settles to the stiff bed, hand against his stomach and phone against his ear. He imagines Adam slipping clumsily atop him to lay heavy against his chest. Gentle nuzzles rub his cheek back and forth against Nigel’s chest hair. He lifts a hand as if to sink his fingers into heated curls, a little damp with sweat, and finds only his own skin.

“I love you,” Nigel tells him. “Adam fucking Raki, I love you more than life itself.”

Silence hums through the earpiece but Nigel knows - he just fucking knows - that Adam’s smiling.

“Three days,” he promises. “Less than. And if I wrap up shit here faster, then I’ll be home even sooner. I fucking miss you,” Nigel murmurs. “Every second you’re not with me.”

Adam curls a hand against his mouth, coiling close to Nigel’s pillow that still smells like him, acrid smoke and sweet sweat. He parts his lips against it and sighs.

“Don’t sleep in the fucking wet spot,” Nigel tells him. “Throw the fucking sheets in the bin and put on clean ones. I washed the fucking lot of them before I left so there should be two sets. You’re okay on groceries?”

“Yes,” Adam whispers.

“Fucking better be, nearly missed my fucking flight to make sure you would be,” Nigel mutters, smiling despite himself, smiling enough that his cheeks hurt with it. “Keeping an eye on shipments?”

“Yes,” grins Adam.

“Good boy. Go wash up so you’re not sleeping in your own mess, Adam, you’re fucking filthy.” A pause, and Nigel’s heart trips as he asks, “Will you call tomorrow?”

“I can,” offers Adam.

“Do,” Nigel says. “I miss you, sparrow.”

“I miss you, Nigel.”


End file.
